Leftovers
by cheride
Summary: What's for dinner? Anything but liver and onions.


5BLeftovers _This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

**A/N:** A look at some missing moments from "You and the Horse You Rode In On". Like so many others, this one first appeared in one of the S4B CD 'zines.

* * *

**Leftovers**

By Cheride

The first thing he thought was that maybe they wouldn't have liver anymore, even if it _was_ one of his favorites. It took him a moment to consciously understand the idea when he awoke that fall morning, though it had the feel of something that had been eating away at him, even in his sleep. And then he remembered last night's argument.

The next thing he became aware of was the quiet. Too much quiet. He knew it instantly, though he argued with himself that there was no real reason to be hearing any noise. It was far too early for the typical McCormick breakfast clatter, and that was when the kid hadn't been out till all hours the night before.

_He never came home._ The thought popped into his head unsolicited, then continued. _It's not quiet because he's sleeping; it's quiet because he's __gone__. _With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself out of bed and plodded toward the bathroom, in no hurry to get downstairs and prove himself correct.

00000

He was on the patio, not even picking at the meager breakfast he'd carried to the table. The coffee hadn't taken nearly long enough to drip into the carafe, and toasting a couple of slices of bread was only a few minutes, even with spreading jam over it before declaring it finished. It still wasn't even eight o'clock, and to expect McCormick to roust himself out of bed without some encouragement was really expecting too much. But he'd determined to forgo the basketball this morning in some sort of unspoken apology—or maybe just to avoid another argument. Even so, there was no denying that his patience was already wearing thin. Contrary to what he presumed was the common belief, he didn't like it when they were fighting; the kid wasn't much fun when he was ticked off. But both of them could let their tempers get the better of their good sense, and when that happened, one of them had to make the first move to smooth things over.

This time, he thought that responsibility was going to rest with him, even though the younger man had been completely out of line. Really, though, the whole thing had been entirely out of proportion, and he should never have crossed so far over the line as to actually tell the kid to leave. If McCormick had made the move to come home—_he didn't come home; he's gone_—then that was going to leave it up to him to start the follow-up conversation. But first the kid had to get out of bed.

His patience held out until just after nine that morning, when he finally knocked once on the gatehouse door, then barged in to prove to himself what he'd known for hours. There had been no sleeping ex-con in residence, and a quick survey of the premises had shown that McCormick had packed at least a few things before he'd left. Apparently this argument was going to drag on for a while.

By noon, the judge was wishing that he'd taken the time to look out the window the evening before when he'd heard the unfamiliar car in the driveway. At the time, he had assumed McCormick was going out with a friend, or maybe had called a cab so he'd be free to indulge in an unusual bout of heavy drinking. He knew better now.

By dinnertime, when Hardcastle sat down at the kitchen table with a ham sandwich—meat sliced extra thick with cheddar cheese, just the way McCormick liked it—and a pile of potato chips, he was angry. It wasn't, he reasoned to himself, like they had never argued before. It wasn't even the first time the kid had stormed out of the house to blow off a little steam. But it _was_ the first time the temper tantrum had turned into a twenty-four hour affair, and that seemed unreasonable to the judge, no matter what had been said. He heaved a sigh and toyed with a chip, trying not to actually think about what _had_ been said.

Later that evening, he tried to settle into a normal routine, but the bowl of popcorn sat on the end table largely untouched and the beer grew warm. He didn't even wait for the final showdown of the movie before he switched the television off in aggravation and stomped up the stairs, thinking the sooner the day ended, the sooner a new one could begin. And a new day had to be better.

00000

Day two _had_ been better, but only because he'd managed to stay more angry than upset. He had decided righteous indignation was definitely the way to deal with this situation. They both knew McCormick wasn't going to stay gone indefinitely, and the longer the kid kept up this pretense, the easier it was to work up a good head of steam. McCormick hadn't even been back for his car, for Pete's sake, so who did he think he was fooling? He'd come back; it was just a question of when.

But by day three, Hardcastle's carefully cultivated anger had settled down to a low boil, and that wasn't nearly as distracting as he'd like. He'd already prowled around the basement, organizing files, even going so far as to choose one or two potential next cases. He decided he preferred not to think that far ahead when he wasn't sure just when McCormick planned on making a reappearance.

Sometime late in that third day, he felt worry slipping to the forefront of his mind, though he tried to beat it back. But it wouldn't be denied, and he found himself at his desk, phoning the local hospitals, as well as making a few discreet calls to some of the most likely lock-ups, just to assure himself that his wayward partner was still wayward by choice.

It was only later that evening, after he'd paid the pizza delivery driver and was picking at the pepperoni topping, that he gave full thought to something that he was pretty sure had been in the back of his mind for days.

_It all started because of the liver._

_That's ridiculous, _he argued with himself, _we've had liver before without this kind of blow-up._

He gave that some thought. Of course they'd had liver before; wasn't that part of the problem? Hadn't the kid reminded him—fairly loudly—that he was well aware of the fact that only one of them actually _liked_ liver? So while the choice of entrees was weighing heavily on his mind, it was clearly only a symptom, not really the cause.

_So what __was__ the problem?_

Hardcastle thought that through even more thoroughly. At the time, he'd chalked McCormick's rantings up to his fairly standard whining and complaining, even if it had been delivered at a slightly higher decibel level than usual. But now . . .

No. He still was not prepared to give much credence to the younger man's complaints of juvenile treatment and inequitable living conditions. Sure, he might ride the kid pretty hard from time to time, but only when it was needed, and only because he was trying to help. And if McCormick was too stubborn—or too ungrateful—to realize that, then maybe a small dose of being on his own in the real world was just what he needed to open his eyes.

He deliberately banished all thoughts of the absent ex-convict from his mind and dived back into his dinner with gusto, never giving a conscious thought that the double pepperoni, loaded with cheese, with the New York style crust was McCormick's favorite, not his.

00000

Day four was poker night. He waited until after twelve, hoping to hear something from McCormick, but then he placed the call. He caught her in chambers.

"Hey, Mattie, it's Milt."

"Hiya, Milt," Judge Groves replied lightly, "how's everything?"

"Good, good," he told her. "I just wanted to talk to you about tonight. McCormick's not going to be able to make it, so do you want me to try and find a fifth, or should we just muddle through?"

"Aww. Mark's not coming? You know I like having him around. He makes me feel young and pretty."

Hardcastle grimaced, and tried not to let it slip into his tone. "Yeah. Though I've told him again and again to tone down the Casanova routine with you."

"And I've told you to leave the boy alone," Mattie laughed. "So I guess he's using his Casanova routine on someone else tonight, then?"

"I guess," Hardcastle hedged. "He's got other plans. Anyway, you want me to start looking for someone else?"

"Oh, I know we probably should, just to keep the game more interesting, but I don't think I'm feeling up to an outsider tonight. I vote we just keep it a foursome, if that's okay with you."

"Perfectly fine with me," Hardcastle answered, more relieved than he would've thought. He didn't feel much like dealing with an outsider, either. "Besides, you're the host, so you're the boss."

"Oh, I'm going to remember that," Mattie told him, laughing again. "Especially the next time Mark comes over."

"I'm _not_ telling him you said that," Hardcastle said, and wondered briefly if anything more than circumstance would ever make that true.

Then they said their goodbyes, and Hardcastle tried to look forward to the upcoming evening with friends.

00000

Poker night had turned out to be a welcome diversion. Not too many questions about McCormick's whereabouts—it wasn't unheard of for the young man to choose his own social life over the standing game—and Hardcastle thought everyone had accepted his casually vague explanation of the kid's whereabouts.

So, when he heard the unexpected doorbell Saturday morning, he was surprised to see the even more unexpected outline of Mattie Groves through the glass-paned door.

"Mattie," he greeted, stepping aside to let her pass, "what brings you out here this morning? Is everything okay?"

"That was actually my question," Mattie told him, leading the way into the den. She looked around. "Too early for Mark this morning?"

"Ah . . . sometimes he keeps pretty strange hours," Hardcastle said slowly.

"Uh-huh." She cast a long, disbelieving look at him, and even in her jeans and sweatshirt, Hardcastle thought she had rarely looked more judicial. He had just opened his mouth to try and stammer out more of an explanation when she continued.

"You seemed distracted last night, Milt, not really yourself at all, though I thought you were trying hard. For what it's worth, I think you fooled the guys, but then, they're guys. But me, I'd like to know what's really going on." She smiled sweetly at him as she sank into one of the leather armchairs, but she didn't look like she had any intention of moving until she got her answer.

"It's nothing," Hardcastle began, trying to determine exactly what he could say that wouldn't constitute an outright lie. He was fairly certain that explaining the situation out loud was going to leave him feeling sort of foolish. Not to mention the fact that McCormick's vanishing act could pretty easily be construed as a flight from lawful custody, and while he might not've completely banished his anger at the younger man, he didn't quite feel ready to blow him into the local authorities.

But Mattie was raising a dangerous eyebrow at him. "Milt Hardcastle. We've known each other a long time, and we've never needed to keep secrets. I suggest you sit yourself down and tell me what's going on." She pointed at the opposite chair and didn't break her gaze from his.

Hardcastle sighed slightly—though he wasn't sure if it was resignation or relief—and dropped into the other chair. But still he hesitated, unsure how to begin.

Mattie helped him along. "It's about Mark, right?"

He felt his eyes widen. "How'd you know that?" he demanded.

"Oh come on, Milt," the woman scoffed at his disbelief. "For the past year or so, the only things that really get under your skin are bad guys and McCormick." She paused a couple of seconds, then added pointedly, "And you never have any problem talking about the bad guys."

Hardcastle shook his head ruefully. "I'm that easy to figure out, huh?"

"Simple process of elimination," she assured him with a grin. "Now, you want to tell me what's wrong with the kid, or should I go over to the gatehouse and ask him myself?"

He let out a heavy breath. "I'd love for you to ask him," he said tiredly, "but you'd have to go farther than the gatehouse. He's not there."

"He didn't come home last night?"

"Not exactly. He's been gone a few days. We had a little bit of a fight and he needed to cool off some. Maybe we both did."

Mattie straightened in her chair. "You haven't heard from him at all?"

"Not a word." Hardcastle shook his head, confirming the response.

"Well, I hate to point this out, Milt, but just taking off isn't really an option for him. I mean, I know your arrangement is a little bit unprecedented, but he is still a parolee, and—"

"Don't think I haven't thought about that," the jurist interrupted, "but what do you want me to do? Have him brought back in cuffs? That doesn't seem very productive. Besides . . . I told him to go."

"You _what_?"

"Well," he began to clarify, "I didn't exactly _tell_ him to go, but I did say he could go if he wanted. And I sure as hell didn't tell him to stay."

"Why not?"

Mattie's simple question stopped him completely for a few seconds, then he blustered on. "I told ya; we had a fight. Both of us said some stuff we probably didn't mean, but if he's too stubborn to realize that, then bein' on his own in the real world for a while is probably just what he needs."

Arching an eyebrow, Mattie asked, "Just how many times have you told yourself that since he's been gone?"

Hardcastle instinctively puffed up his chest to offer an indignant rebuttal, but her unwavering gaze wasn't allowing for any deception. He blew out a short breath. "A few," he admitted sullenly.

"Men," she lamented, and Hardcastle grinned slightly. Then she offered an instruction. "Have him brought back."

Surprised, Hardcastle replied, "He isn't a prisoner here. And before you ask, yeah, I've had to tell myself _that_ a time or two this week, too."

She shook her head. "I know he's not a prisoner, Milt. But if his hard-headedness has run smack-dab into yours, something's gotta give, before you both let this go too far. So, have him brought back so you can talk to him."

"And what do you suggest I say to him? Because trust me, the things I've thought about these past few days probably wouldn't help matters any. He just needs to come home; I won't even make him apologize. But he needs to come back on his own."

"Oh, honestly." Mattie waved her hands in exasperation, then leaned forward and looked at Milt intently. "You know, if this is the kind of thing he put up with every day, it's sort of amazing it took him this long to walk out. Do I have to spell it out for you? What you say to him is that you're sorry that things got so heated. That you know sometimes your temper causes you to say things you don't mean. And then you tell him that the only reason you had him brought back was because you wanted to talk; tell him—calmly—that he is free to go. But make sure you also tell him that you really wish he wouldn't."

Hardcastle waited a full minute, expecting his friend to give some indication that she'd misspoken; that she didn't really expect him to say any such thing to anyone, let alone to McCormick himself. And even though it was soon clear that no such indication was forthcoming, he found himself asking the question anyway. "You're joking, right?"

Sighing dramatically, Mattie replied, "No, I am _not_ joking. He's your friend, Milt; if you can't be honest with him then there's a bigger problem than you even know."

"This isn't a question of honesty, Mattie," Hardcastle answered firmly. "This is a question of . . . I dunno, propriety, maybe. I'm the boss around here, in case you've forgotten. He's in _my_ custody; here under _my_ judicial stay. I might've let him go, but that's a helluva long ways from being willing to ask him to stay. I can't do that. I'm the judge; he's the . . ." He trailed off, not quite wanting to label the young man, even in these circumstances. "I'm the judge," he repeated with just a touch of defiance.

"So what?" she demanded. "Sometimes being a judge means you've got to be willing to admit you made a mistake."

"Maybe," the man said slowly. "But it _always_ means you've got to be in control."

00000

It had been a pretty unproductive day, Hardcastle mused as he stirred the simmering pot of chili. He blamed Mattie Groves for that.

Her actual visit hadn't been all that long. When she had realized she wasn't making any progress in her attempts to convince him that he needed to go crawling to McCormick—though, of course, she hadn't believed that's what she'd been asking him to do—she'd moved to simply trying to cheer him up. That hadn't been any more successful, but he had truly appreciated her efforts. He remembered that she had said one thing that had made a lot of sense: good friends were hard to come by.

He shook his head. After Mattie had gone, he'd spent the day in what could only be described as a funk. It wasn't something he was accustomed to—at least not in the past year or so—and he could honestly say that he didn't like it one bit. But while he'd been perfectly willing to make the first move toward reconciliation when he'd thought this was a typical argument, as it had drawn out into this standoff, he'd become convinced that doing so would put him in a position of subordination, and he wasn't ready to do that. So he was preparing himself for another meal alone.

He gave the chili another stir, then lifted the spoon to his lips. It was just about perfect; not nearly as spicy as the stuff McCormick usually whipped up.

Without any thought as to why, he picked up the can and sprinkled in more chili powder.

00000

After Sunday breakfast of waffles and sausage patties—another of McCormick's favorites—Hardcastle dug through his desk for the spare keys to the Coyote, then climbed into the sports car and headed down the drive. It had occurred to him that it wasn't good for any car to sit idle for too many days, and he figured it might be even worse for something McCormick was always telling him was a 'finely tuned racing machine'. Not that taking care of the Coyote should be his responsibility. If McCormick came back and found the thing in some sad state of disrepair, that should probably serve as just one more life lesson.

Of course, he reasoned, if that should happen, he'd be the one ultimately paying the price, both in mechanic bills and in putting up with more of McCormick's whining about the thing. That seemed unnecessary, when the only preventative maintenance required would be the occasional drive just to keep everything in working order. So, with his rationalizations firmly in place, and no thought that it was anything more than self-preservation, Hardcastle pulled onto the PCH with no particular destination in mind.

00000

The evening of day seven found Hardcastle sitting on the patio, staring at the pool, phone close at hand just in case. Not that he exactly _expected_ to hear from McCormick, but it was possible. The truth was, enough time had passed that he was beginning to wonder which of them would actually prove to be more stubborn, but it hadn't been so long that he didn't still _hope_ each time the phone rang. It had even happened earlier that afternoon, just as it had whenever he had answered the phone for the past week. He'd picked up the receiver, full of bluster and ready to put on a good front, only to discover it wasn't McCormick on the other end of the line.

It had hit him then, the truth that he hadn't entirely wanted to admit, even to himself. And the truth was, he'd been fairly miserable since left to his own devices a week ago. At least part of it was surely something close to guilt; he could admit that, even if he didn't like it. But part of it was an unwelcome realization that the self-sufficient guy who had gotten quite accustomed to being alone seemed to have lost that knack sometime in the past year.

Hardcastle reflected that he had never expected that to happen—never intended to _let_ it happen. He truly had never meant for them to become friends. McCormick was brash, and immature, and certainly a little lacking in the good judgment department. The young man's world view was as far from his own as it could get. There was nothing to bind them together beyond a piece of legal wrangling that gave him a hired hand and kept McCormick out of prison. Except . . .

Except that none of that had turned out to be entirely true. It had soon become apparent that it wasn't really their world views that were all that different, just their methods. McCormick's brashness had become recognized as a different form of his own inclination to do whatever was necessary to get a job done. And what had appeared to be immaturity had turned out to be a very simple ability to recognize and revel in the joy in everyday life—something Hardcastle thought might've been missing from his own life for too long. And as for judgment, well, the young man _had_ had sense enough to take him up on a pretty outlandish offer to begin with, and he'd kept his promise, tried his best to help, and never once tried to take off and skip out on his responsibilities.

_Until you told him to leave_, Hardcastle accused himself.

_Until he got tired of working for an honest living_, the other side of his mind argued, though the largest part of him knew that was patently untrue.

He found himself reaching for the phone, intending to have an APB issued and take care of this business once and for all. It wasn't the first time he'd considered it, and a time or two he'd gotten as far as dialing the number, only to hang up before the first ring could even be completed. Not that he didn't believe the idea held some merit; there were brief moments when he could almost convince himself it was the right thing to do. He was well within his rights to do it, and even McCormick probably figured that's what would happen eventually. If he had to, he thought he could probably even blame it on Mattie. He grinned fractionally at that idea, but he never lifted the phone off the hook. He was certainly angry enough to enjoy imagining the young man being dragged back to the estate, wearing cuffs, kicking and screaming for all he was worth. But he knew he wasn't angry enough to keep the kid here under those circumstances, and he sure as hell wasn't desperate enough to follow through with the rest of Mattie's suggestion.

So that left him exactly where he'd been for the past seven days, angry and lonely, with nothing to do but stare at the pool. And hope that—just once—McCormick would turn out to be just a tiny bit less stubborn than he was.

00000

The pattern didn't change much for Hardcastle over the next couple of weeks. He spent his days frustrated, torn between his wish that McCormick would just come home already and his need to never reveal that desire. He was perfectly willing to admit that such obstinance was likely counter-productive and maybe even just a little bit irrational, but somewhere in the midst of too-silent days that were filled with preparing McCormick's favorite meals and driving McCormick's car and even doing McCormick's chores, the pride was winning out over the loneliness. He became determined that he would not be the one making the first move toward reconciliation this time, regardless of his intentions that first morning. McCormick would realize the error of his ways all on his own or they were done; it was as simple as that.

Finally, his decision made, there was nothing left to do but hope it wouldn't come to that.

So it was that three weeks after the argument, Hardcastle had been trimming bushes when the phone rang and he'd run to grab it off the hook, convinced that this time it would be McCormick. And this time, he'd been correct.

00000

He gripped the wheel a little tighter than usual as he steered the truck along the street, though he'd never really admit that he was nervous. He'd managed to give the kid a hard time, keeping up pretenses, though the truth was he thought McCormick had probably seen through most of his guff almost from the beginning. But that was okay. They'd have lunch at this fancy French place, they'd both do a little song and dance, and then the kid would come back home where he belonged. There was no reason it should be otherwise.

He'd kept his ear to the ground while McCormick had been away; the kid must've managed to keep his nose clean, even while he was stomping around like a spoiled brat, or he would've heard about it, so this couldn't be some kind of plea for help. And if he wasn't boosting cars, or something equally illegal, McCormick didn't have too many profitable skills, so there was no way he was setting the stage to tell the judge to take a hike. He knew that.

What he didn't understand was the tiny feeling of dread that he couldn't quite shake as he pulled into the restaurant parking lot.

00000

When he pulled out of the parking lot, Hardcastle was angrier than he'd been in the past three weeks, though the direction had been shifted. He was still taking some heat himself, for allowing things to go this far, but McCormick was off the hook. The kid had just been doing what he'd told him to do, going out and making his way in the world. But David Waverly . . . Waverly had done what he always did: taken advantage of someone who was just trying to get a piece of the American Dream. But making McCormick part of his scam was going to be a costly mistake for Waverly; Hardcastle intended to see to that.

00000

"You're not listening to me," Hardcastle snapped. "I told you; he's not involved."

"Vice-President in charge of West Coast distribution," Mike Delaney said, gesturing at the business card on the desk between them, "that sounds pretty involved."

The judge shook his head in exasperation. "Look, he stumbled into it by mistake, Mike; he didn't even know the drill. Wouldn't surprise me if he's already told Waverly to take that fancy job and shove it by now. But we need to shut that guy down once and for all."

"I still don't understand how he 'stumbles into' something like this," Delaney insisted. "How doe he accidentally end up working for this Waverly guy? I thought he worked for you?"

Hardcastle sighed. "He did. He _does_." He rubbed at his brow and sighed again. "We were trying a little experiment, that's all. And McCormick, being McCormick, ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. But that just means we'll have a ready-made witness once we get Waverly in court again. What do you say?" He offered a convincing smile.

Delaney didn't seem entirely convinced, but he nodded his head slowly. "So you're just gonna go over there and poke around a little, huh? See what pops up?"

"That's it," Hardcastle answered with a grin. "Basic cage rattling."

"All right, but you're gonna wear a wire. If you're right, and McCormick's already bailed on him, Waverly could be getting nervous. This might be basic cage rattling, but I'd like to make sure we keep hold of the keys."

The jurist didn't argue, just rubbed his hands together, eyes gleaming, and said, "He's gonna find out he picked the wrong Mark to mess with this time."

00000

Hardcastle was fidgeting in the auditorium seat. He understood the need to obtain independent statements from the parties involved, and he should surely be used to it by now, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Much as he hated to admit it, there were too many people who might like to trip up McCormick just because he was a con—especially in this case, when his involvement looked a little questionable to begin with. He was just glad Mike was over there running point.

Not that anyone _should_ question him; the young man had done a good job. Sure, he'd gotten suckered into a bad spot, but that's what Waverly did; you couldn't blame Mark for that. And as soon as he'd understood what was really happening, McCormick had walked away from more money than he was likely to see anytime soon. He felt a surge of pride, remembering the watch and keys at the bottom of that fish tank, and a small grin formed. The kid hadn't just quit; he'd quit with _style_.

_And then he came back for you_, the judge's mind popped up, and he had to think that through just a bit. Twice, in less than a month, he'd pushed the kid so far that McCormick apparently felt he had no choice but to walk away. And yet, without a second thought, he'd walked back into Waverly's scheme, putting himself in harm's way, just to protect the man who'd undoubtedly seemed content just to let him walk.

_But he knows better_, he assured himself.

He thought briefly again of his visit with Mattie, and her insistence that he should just tell the other man what he truly felt. Usually Mattie was a pretty bright gal, but that idea didn't make any more sense now than it had two weeks ago, though he supposed it really shouldn't be all that difficult.

"Hey."

He looked up from his musings to find the object of his thoughts before him. McCormick was standing quietly, tie loosened, hands slipped into the pockets of his slacks, the barest shadow of a smile on his face. He seemed to be waiting for something, though Hardcastle thought even he probably wasn't entirely sure just what.

"Hey, yourself," he returned. A beat passed, then he continued, "So you're all done?"

McCormick nodded once. "They decided I really was just the stupid patsy, not part of the criminal mastermind."

The judge shrugged. "Nothin' stupid about ya, kid; Waverly just knows how to make everything work to his advantage, that's all."

Then there was silence again, while McCormick stared at his shifting feet. Finally, Hardcastle spoke up.

"So you were at the estate when they called to tell ya they'd grabbed me, huh?"

McCormick looked up slowly. "I was at home, yeah."

The older man let that hang for a minute, hearing McCormick's unspoken questions. He finally offered the only kind of reassurance he could. "Well, lucky for me they found ya." He pushed himself out of the chair. "C'mon, it's definitely your turn to cook."

McCormick chuckled as he followed the jurist toward the exit. "Okay. Whattaya wanna have?"

Hardcastle didn't look back at him, didn't slow his step, and spoke with his typical offhand gruffness. "Whatever you want, kiddo. Whatever you want."

And he knew McCormick would understand.


End file.
